


Snow Day

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Has the blizzard started yet?” David asks, looking out the window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Day

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for an anon on my tumblr who asked for David Silva/David Villa fic. It's slightly au in that Manchester City definitely would not let David Silva take a vacation to New York in the middle of the season. anyway, I hope you enjoy!

“Has the blizzard started yet?” David asks, looking out the window. 

Silva looks up from his book and snorts. The night sky is a washed-out yellow, from the glow of the streetlights reflecting off the falling snow. 

“Not yet,” he says. “I’m pretty sure they’re not shutting everything down until midnight, so.” 

“But it’s snowing,” David says. 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s like, a blizzard. Haven’t you read _Game of Thrones_?” 

“Yes?” David says. “But it doesn’t make a profound distinction between what’s just snow and what’s a blizzard, especially with respect to the status of the New York City subway.” He pauses. “Have you read _Game of Thrones_?”

“No,” Silva says, mildly, turning a page in his book. “But I know there’s like, snow in it. And that guy who doesn’t know anything. So I thought there might be some contextual clues you could use.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” David says, grinning. “Why did I even invite you here?”

“I have no idea,” Silva says, looking up at him and licking his lips. “Genuinely, none.”

“Go back to England,” David says, going over to the chair where Silva is sitting, pulling Silva’s blanket up and cuddling under it. There really isn’t room for both of them, but Silva shifts a little, letting David come to rest against his side. It’s quiet. Silva tries to keep reading, but he can’t focus with David this close to him, keeps cutting glances over. David’s on his phone, a weather app open, frowning as he tries to figure out the English. 

“What’s that word?” he asks, shoving his phone into Silva’s hand, just as Silva’s turned back to his book. Silva bites his bottom lip for a second, restrains himself.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Come on, you’ve been in England forever, you don’t know English yet?” And David’s teased Silva about this so many times: given him English phrasebooks for Christmas, told him “English can’t be that hard if someone has dumb as Pepe here can speak it” at call-ups while Reina was sitting next to them, made them watch the first three Harry Potter movies undubbed, without subtitles. Somehow, though, this time it cuts, quick and deep, a momentary annoyance but then, before Silva can laugh it off, it’s settled inside of him, making him aware once more of the constricting emptiness that never really leaves him. Like how suddenly and against the run of play, a striker can weave through the defence, feight a pass and bury the ball in the upper corner of the net, silencing the fans; once everything was possible but now you’re now left with after-effects and consequences. 

“Four and a half years,” Silva says, because how can David not - how can David joke about that, how can he be unsure.

David must hear it in Silva’s voice, or feel it in his body: the tension in his shoulders, the way he draws his arms in. 

“I know, David, I know -” David says, and Silva feels a laugh bubble up in him, desperate and one step from being a sob: because this is David, always, apologetic after the fact, ready to break Silva’s heart and leave him and then draw him back again and again. David can break down, can only be desperate in defeat and loss, can only fight for Silva once he’s pushed him away, can only say “I need you” over the phone when they’re an ocean apart. 

“I never fucking wanted to learn English, ok?” Silva says. “So just. Can you leave it.”

David presses his face against Silva’s shoulder, kisses the edge of Silva’s neck, wherever he can reach and Silva thinks, semi-hysterically: here we go again.

“I know you didn’t want to,” David says, into the crook of Silva’s neck, “I didn’t want you to either, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, David,” his voice cracking. 

“It’s fine,” Silva says, quietly, settling himself against David a little more, unable to stop himself from pushing into the warmth of David’s hands, unable to imagine not doing so, hating himself a little for it. “It is what it is.” 

He knows it isn’t fair of him to blame David for this hurt, knows that David has no more control than Silva does; though maybe that’s the hardest part, still, after all these years. Silva fell so hard for David when he was unconquerable, unstoppable; his dark eyes and the slim line of his shoulders and the brutal curve of his free kicks in the salty Valencia sunsets. Silva was a scared kid then, homesick and turned around, looking for solid ground and instead he found David, a star four years away from going supernova. Silva hates that now David’s knees hurt all the time, hates that he plays in the MLS, hates that David couldn’t save the World Cup for them, hates that David couldn’t stop the transfers, hates that all along it turns out David was as hollow and unsure as Silva was. That he’s reaching for Silva even as Silva keeps being pulled away. 

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” David says, in response, fitting himself more thoroughly against Silva. “I’m still sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Silva says, turning his head and pressing a kiss to David’s forehead, to his temple. “I’m not.” He means, I wouldn’t, I couldn’t give this up for anything. He means, I cannot carve you out of my chest and I’ve given up trying. He means, I want to go home to you, but I don’t know where that is anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr as [baking-soda](http://baking-soda.tumblr.com)


End file.
